Author: Regency
Title: Out Into Colour
Series: Other Lives
Warnings: homophobic slurs, foul language, semi-graphic sexual imagery, adultery, period-typical sexism
Pairing: (unrequited) Sherlock/Molly, Sherlock/John, Molly & Lestrade
Summary: In the 1950s, Sherlock has been blessed with a life of relative ease, a marriage to a woman who is besotted without interfering and the freedom to do the work he enjoys. Then, there is the doctor, John Watson, who treats Molly's nerves with a kindness Sherlock cannot replicate, who makes her smile, small and shy as a tormented cat in response to love. It does not kill him that he is losing her; it kills him that he is very slowly losing himself to the same man.
Author's Notes: You've got BBC's The Hour to thank for this, particularly Andrew Scott's character. He inspired the whole thing. Also, please keep in mind that this relates to Molly's character as characterized in seasons one and two and not in three. I started this a long time ago. Molly will grow. This may not be her story, but I do love her and want good things for her.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Sherlock. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
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Sherlock slicks his hair to please his mother. When she is dead, his brother. His is naturally an unruly head of stuff that bucks all attempts at decorum, much as the man himself. He's an invert, a fag, a deviant, or some such bizarre name to say that he wants what he should not in an age where to have it means his life. This marriage, his marriage, the one he will enter in today, was made by his brother's corpulent hand.
"It is for your safety, brother dear. With a home and wife, people may talk but not too loudly."
"And you, big brother, what will they say about you?"
"Nothing, if they value house and hearth," spake the shadow with a knife.
One family, two queers. A solution for one, a life in deep hiding for the other. In the moments before he dons his pressed tuxedo and cummerbund, Sherlock comes closest to believing in the power of sacrificial love. The day reeks of agápe.
Mycroft's upright countenance invades the chapel's full-length mirror over Sherlock's right shoulder. "Dashing as ever, Sherlock. And I've just seen, your bride is without equal."
Sherlock scoffed. "Don't pretend you've noticed."
"It's my job to notice these things."
"No, I think you'll find that's down to me," he jerks his blasted tie, "the consulting detective."
Those bloodless, pale lips stretch and twist like taffy. Is he ever happy? Sherlock has his reservations on the matter. "So it is."
"You'll be forced to take a wife at some point."
Mycroft's flexes his pristine hand over the handle of his umbrella. "I wear a ring and there's a story written, somewhere. No one of any breeding will ask me."
"Your superiors? Your masters?"
"My superiors are fools to underestimate me, but not altogether fools, hmm?"
"That's for you to know and me to pretend ignorance of." Sherlock tugs at his restrictive bowtie. "Dreadful. Can't I wear a standard necktie? I'll even do the half-Windsor Mummy demanded we wear."
"Afraid not. The occasion demands a certain level of ceremony. It is your one and only wedding, I should hope. Let us commemorate the occasion in a fashion to similarly never be repeated."
Sherlock's eyes snap to Mycroft as his brother reaches around to adjust his bow. "You're having a laugh at my expense."
Mycroft's eyes are glimmering. "When else would I have them?"
Sherlock huffs, indignant and ignores him.
They fuss with Sherlock's impeccable attire for another couple of minutes before one of Molly's nameless, effectively faceless bridesmaids come to tell them it's time. Sherlock falters, all rebellion gone, only bleak resistance filling up the hollow of his empty stomach. My entire life written in straight lines. I've never thought in them, why should they be the way I live?
"I don't want it."
Mycroft sighs like Mother, all wood and ink essence in the weave of his lapels, honeyed tea on his breath. This is not a man Sherlock can hide behind anymore. The monsters are too enormous for big brothers alone. The hand that finds his shoulder still feels that it might be strong enough to take on the world and win. Sherlock tries to delete the sentiment from his thoughts, yet it refuses to leave him. He prays it never does; it may be the only thing to carry him through.